


What is Owed

by originally



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Book 5: A Dance with Dragons, Clothed Sex, Intercrural Sex, M/M, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-26
Updated: 2015-04-26
Packaged: 2018-03-25 03:19:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3794686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/originally/pseuds/originally
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Jon would not submit so easily, not in politics and not in this.</i>
</p><p>Set somewhere between Jon III and Jon IV.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What is Owed

**Author's Note:**

  * For [theoldgods](https://archiveofourown.org/users/theoldgods/gifts).



> Thanks to my wingmen R and H for their insightful comments.
> 
> For theoldgods, who asked for rough sex with things left unspoken.

The hour of ghosts had stolen over the castle like a velvet shroud and the candles had long since burned down to meagre, flickering stubs when the scuff of leather boots on stone made Jon look up from the parchment spread haphazardly across the table before him. He ran a hand through his hair, half in frustration at the decisions still to be made and half at the intrusion; it seemed that he would not be done with these maps as soon as he would like. Yet, there were few enough people who would come here at this time of night. _Edd_ , he told himself—but he knew that that was wrong. He had dismissed the steward hours ago, pretending all the while that it was not this very possibility he’d had in mind.

He rounded the table and forced himself to wait three heartbeats after the sharp knock sounded, breathing out slowly as the fingers of his sword hand curled involuntarily into his palm. “Come.”

The king’s clothing was unadorned and practical: a dark, hooded cloak, supple leather gloves, woollen breeches, a deep blue tunic. Under a cursory glance, he could have passed for a black brother in the moonlight, or perhaps one of the more fortunate of the free folk. Whilst his face was half in shadow, his deep blue eyes were piercing even through the gloom. No one who saw those eyes could have mistaken him for anything but King Stannis Baratheon, the First of His Name, despite the absence of his crown.

He stepped into the solar and pulled down his hood, slipping the cloak from his shoulders. Underneath he looked gaunt and pale, and the dwindling candlelight caught the flecks of grey in his close-cropped beard. There was something tired in the lines around his eyes.

“Your Grace,” Jon murmured, sinking to one knee with his head bowed. He willed his hand to unclench.

“Lord Commander.”

The floor of Jon’s solar was hard and cold even through his layers of clothing, but he bore the discomfort until Stannis made an impatient sound and bade him stand, quicker than he might have expected. The king seemed to have grown weary of him kneeling of late, at least so long as they both knew Jon had no intention of laying Longclaw at his feet.

Jon drew himself back upright, meeting Stannis’ eye with his own eyebrows slightly raised. Perhaps that would be read as insolence, but there was no question about what the king had intended in coming here, and Jon was loath to give away that upper hand in this strange dance they were engaged in.

“Was there something you needed, Your Grace?” he said at last, breaking the tense silence. That was a little surrender. “My steward has already retired, else I'd offer you something to drink.”

“Some of my men have complained that their night fire was disrupted by the presence of your… wolf.”

Jon’s eyes flicked instinctively to Ghost’s empty spot by the hearth and back to the king. A muscle twitched in Stannis’ jaw, though his expression gave as little away as it ever did. Jon thought of the king’s men and queen’s men training on opposite sides of the yard and wondered, not for the first time, exactly how much stock the king put in those fires, or in this Lord of Light he wanted Jon to renounce his father's gods for.

“My apologies, Sire,” he said, as neutrally as he could, “but Ghost will do no harm to any man so long as he’s not provoked.”

“Be that as it may,” said Stannis, “I cannot guarantee that no harm will come to him.”

Jon bristled. “Your men should take care. If he's roused, Ghost can hold his own.”

He held Stannis’ gimlet gaze, determined not to be the first to look away. If their game had any rules at all, this was the first that Jon had learned: display no weakness. Stannis would not; the king was stone, hard and unyielding.

And yet.

He had been the one to come here. Jon raised his chin and pressed his lips resolutely closed.

After a long moment’s silence, Stannis said, “Have you reconsidered my offer?”

 _This again_. “I swore a vow.” _And forswore it, half a hundred times already._ “Before my gods. And my brothers charged me with a duty, Your Grace. I cannot set it aside.”

The king took a step forward. “My patience wears thin, Lord Snow,” he said.

His voice was pitched low and dangerous and Jon shivered despite himself. Stannis was a big man, taller and broader than he. Jon had youth on his side, but should the king’s impatience turn to violence, well… Longclaw was hanging in his swordbelt by the door, too far away, but there was a dagger in Jon’s boot if he found the grace to reach it.

Stannis took another step. Jon stood his ground, heart beating rabbit-quick in his chest.

“You are a stubborn enough fool to be a Stark,” Stannis murmured. He was close enough now for Jon to feel warm breath against his cheek, and to smell the lingering scent of smoke on the king's clothing. “That at least is not in doubt.”

Jon had to tip his head back to look at him. In silence, the king raised his hand to run his thumb along Jon’s jaw, the leather of his gloves dragging on the stubble of Jon’s beard. They stood like that for a long moment, neither of them moving, as if the cold of the Wall had finally frozen them there, until Jon let out a ragged breath and then Stannis’ lips were on his.

The kiss itself was half a battle: a bruising, biting tussle that left Jon dizzy and breathless. Their tongues slid together, slick and hot and with desperate urgency, and Jon could not help but yield himself to it. The king pressed his advantage, forcing Jon onto the back foot until his thighs hit the table. Jon’s fingers dug into the meat of Stannis’ arms to steady himself, and Stannis’ hand snaked around behind him, pulling their bodies flush together as he forced his leg roughly between Jon’s. He slid his hand into Jon’s hair and yanked his head to one side, exposing Jon’s neck to his hot mouth.

 _His Grace is growing fond of you_ , Melisandre had said. As Stannis’ gloved fingers caught in his hair and Stannis’ teeth scraped across his throat, he almost wanted to laugh. Was this what passed for fondness in the south, this war between them, this consuming obsession that made Jon’s blood run hot and his cock strain the leather of his breeches? _Are you watching this in your fires, my lady?_

That thought made fresh desire surge through him and he rolled his hips, grinding his erection against the king’s thigh and making him groan. This was the dance, this give and take, and Jon would not submit so easily, not in politics and not in this. He tangled his fingers in the downy hair at the nape of Stannis’ neck, pulling until he elicited a satisfying hiss. Stannis drew back from Jon’s throat to look down at him with lust-darkened eyes.

“Would you truly rather remain Ned Stark’s bastard for the rest of your life?” he said. Jon felt the words rumble through his chest. “How many times must I ask you before you yield?”

 _That is not all I am._ “At least once more, Your Grace,” Jon said, and dragged him down into another bruising kiss that had them both gasping for breath.

The candles guttered down to almost nothing as they stood there twined together, fighting more than embracing, each man grappling for dominance as they panted against the other’s mouth. Jon could taste copper on his tongue, though whether it was his blood or the king’s he could not say. Stannis tugged sharply at Jon’s laces and Jon bucked up against him, desperate for more contact.

“By the gods, Snow, stop squirming,” Stannis growled into his ear, and suddenly Jon found himself flipped and bent over the table, scattering papers everywhere, with Stannis’ strong arm holding him fast as his breeches were wrenched down. He twisted around to see the king spit into his palm and slick himself, like the most baseborn wretch. _Is this what they picture when they accuse me of giving him too much?_

“Close your legs,” Stannis commanded, and Jon obeyed without thinking, clenching his thighs together as the king slid his cock between them. The groan that Stannis gave was deep and guttural and sounded wounded, as if it had been torn unwillingly from his lips. He rocked against Jon almost frantically, and the obscene sounds of flesh on slick flesh mingled with their harsh grunts in the quiet of the solar. Jon could only brace himself against the solid wood and let the king take, pinned there with Stannis' chest pressed flush to his still-clothed back and one of Stannis' big hands still gripping his hair. Jon's skin burned forge-hot where they touched, and his aching cock twitched neglected against his belly, and soon he could no longer hold back his desperate moans.

“Please,” he gritted out, the word tasting bitter on his tongue. 

Stannis took Jon in hand, grasping loosely and letting his momentum rock both of them closer to the edge. The leather of his glove was rough against Jon's skin, but he only cursed and pressed his legs more tightly together, making them both gasp. It wasn't long before he felt Stannis shudder against him, his release spattering Jon’s thighs, and a few tugs later Jon followed, spilling hot over the king’s long fingers.

Even as Jon stood there, slumped against the table with his body lax and trembling with exertion, Stannis had already drawn back, wiping off his glove with an expression of great distaste. He tied his laces swiftly, and by the time Jon had found the wherewithal to turn around and yank up his own breeches, Stannis had donned his cloak and paused in the doorway.

He gave a curt nod, as though nothing more heated than words had passed between them. As though Jon's thighs were not still sticky with his seed. 

“Lord Commander.”

“Your Grace."

The king stepped back out into the night, leaving Jon to gather his maps and hope that his guards had honour enough to hold their tongues.


End file.
